Baby Mama of the Week: Kathrine Holland of The Mummy Diaries

The Mummy Diaries is not to be read if you don't have some spare hours on your hands.

Kathrine Holland's addictive prose and hilarious, honest take on the world of moms, neighbors, and entertainment will keep you clicking until you've also forgotten your child's birthday.

Whether teaching her own mother about camel toes or setting the birthday party ground rules, Holland gets right to the point in a pants-peeing way (or in a husband-farting kind of way -- yes, you have to read this).

This Aussie mum of baby Connor and his big brother Noah doesn't pull any punches in The Mummy Diaries. And for that, we're naming Kathrine our Baby Mama of the Week.

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Name one thing about you that would surprise your readers.

That this conservative and prim and proper mummy actually once worked as a "bawdy wench" at Dirty Dicks Theatre Restaurant. It was a Ye Olde-style restaurant complete with a Robin Hood-style stage show, massive jugs of beer, and bad fake trees as scenery. All was going well until an after-work drinks night when Robin Hood pointed his arrow in my general direction and I decided that even $20 an hour wasn't worth this level of harassment. Apparently he was auditioning for the role of Maid Marion but I wasn't buying it.

What is your proudest parenting moment?

Any day that I don't make it to 1 p.m. before realising that it's actually my son's birthday is a proud moment for me.

Picture this ... frantic working mother gets out of boardroom meetings around lunch time and escapes the sharks to grab some food and indulge in some clothes shopping at the local mall. Somewhere between sushi roll and new scarf, frantic working mother realises it's son Noah's 3rd birthday and simultaneously feels flushes of hot and cold all over body while pangs of guilt rush through hungry stomach. RUN into supermarket, frantic, guilty mother is overjoyed to find a chocolate cake with a Wiggles picture on top, throws some party hats into shopping basket, and RUNS as fast as she can to his day care centre, which is thankfully just around the corner.

Frantic working mother who is now cursing herself for being so god-damn career-obsessed RUNS through the front door of his day care, ranting incoherently like a woman drunk on guilt and shame. The words "such a bad mother" may have escaped her lips numerous times. Poor neglected 3-year-old, however, is over-joyed at "surprise party" and said Wiggles cake. He sits at the head of the party table and beams with happiness, which strangely makes frantic working mother with leg cramps from running in high heels feel even more like a big pile of poo inside.

I'm proud to say that now I live and die by my iPhone calender reminders.

What's your secret coping mechanism?

Humor?? The ability to make fun of oneself and more importantly the loved ones around oneself. Okay, I will stop referring to myself as "oneself" now. I was starting to feel like I was in a bad telemovie remake of Pride and Prejudice.

You know this whole mothering thing is one fantastic ride. But just like the best roller coaster you could ever go on, there's ups, downs, good bits, bad bits, and someone is always sure to throw up everywhere or poo their pants. And when they do, you can betcha last dollar that you will be the one cleaning it up off the walls. So in those moments there is nothing left to do but laugh and poke a little fun at oneself.

When your baby is old enough to Google, which blog post are you most afraid of him reading?

Oh gosh. You know how like you never ever want to accept that your parents do IT? And if you've ever had the misfortune of walking on in your parents doing IT, it's like your eyes have been splashed with acid and you are forever scarred, the image of them sweaty, naked, and all Kama Sutra forever imprinted on your brain?? That's kinda how I feel about every post in my blog. My kids will be like, "Aww c'mon mum did ya have to talk about Dad's morning wood and vajazzling your vajayjay??? G-ROSS ..."

To narrow it down though, any stories that include my husband, myself, and the phrase "sweet rumpty" would be sure to have them dry retching:

Given that I am really getting by on a wing and a prayer myself, I just don't even know if I am qualified to give any. Besides, even if I did, you would be all like, "C'mon she can't even remember her own kid's birthday and I'm supposed to follow her advice? Take a hike lady."